Learning to thrift from her father and how to cut and sew from her mom, Kucharski built her process around those inherited talents and with the support of parents who’d rather she was creating than spending all of her money on clothes. 

After returning from a creatively liberating year abroad, studying at Central Saint Martins in London, Kucharski found herself dissatisfied with ways of working back home in the States. 

Read more: Paramore’s ‘Brand New Eyes’ still resonates on its 12th anniversary

“I think, in American education, we focus so much on the final product that they forget the importance of the process,” she explains over the phone from L.A. “At Saint Martins, I learned that everything was about the process. They didn’t care what the final product was—only what it took to get there.

“I remember getting a D on a drawing that I think I had gotten an A on before because the border wasn’t the size of the border that they had specified in the instructions,” Kucharski continues. “But it was my favorite drawing I’d ever done. I was done then and there, you know?”

Since leaving school and moving to Los Angeles, what began as a way to express herself in a community where she didn’t necessarily feel like a part of the in-crowd has become a full-on brand: a brand dedicated to the art of the process itself, where how things are made is just as important as the final product—but also a brand with international recognition and an enviable list of celebrity clients.

Read more: Elvia shares her fashion influences, pop culture inspirations and more

In that sense, what Kucharski has created is a best of both worlds situation: where people can appreciate her work on a massive scale, but where her work isn’t dominated by the requirements of that scale. Left Hand LA, in the end, is built not only on process but also on principles. 

And Kucharski isn’t one to abandon her beliefs for the sake of business. 

Where did your interest in clothes and fashion come from?

I was always playing dress-up as a kid, and now, after watching old home videos, I see exactly where everything started. I was just in my mom’s heels and dresses running around. And then, in elementary school, I would ask to be dropped off at the mall. I’d just walk around and try things on and try to get a job—even though I was only in second or third grade.

Wow, so you really can trace this right back to the source. Was that early passion something that people supported?

Definitely. My mom realized that it was obviously a real love for clothing and started making my clothes. I think she thought that I was just going to be some kind of shopaholic, so she turned it around really fast and was like, “Let’s make our own and cut off the problem right now.” And then, on top of that, my dad was super thrifty. He taught me to how to thrift in like seventh grade. Combining those two skill sets is where it all started.

How did you first decide to turn something so personal into a full-on brand?

At first, it was a hobby, but it was also my first love. It still is, really. I just ended up in L.A. and, as you do, ended up starting the brand here. I didn’t actually even think about having a brand until a friend of mine was like, “What are you doing? Why are you just making all of these clothes? What’s the end goal here?”

I guess when you’re doing stuff for yourself, you don’t really think about an end goal, right? 

Exactly. Doing it is the end goal. Back in school, the majority of my class voted that I was going to be a famous fashion designer. And it’s interesting that my peers can see that, but for me, it was just what I love to do. Anything clothing-related.

My dream job was actually starting a bus that went on tour and sold vintage clothes. We would stop in cities all over the country, and you’d know that the tour was coming through. Kind of like a traveling carnival of thrift, you know?

That way you’re constantly updating your stock, too. From city to city. 

Exactly. That was my goal. Thrifting in the U.S. is so fun—a whole other world, really—because if you go to a new state, then the clothes in the thrift stores just completely reflect wherever you’re visiting. It’s not like it says “Texas” on it in big letters, but if you’re at a thrift store in Texas, then you can tell for sure that you’re in Texas. I love that culture. 

Maybe vintage is my first love—just like the appreciation of the silhouettes and the construction and the quality. If I could have one superpower, I would literally go back in time just to see what it would be like to actually exist in the ’70s and live among those materials and that design mentality.

There’s also the sustainability issue, right? 

People always asked why I did one-of-one pieces. Business people would always be like, “That’s not sustainable.” But, actually, that is sustainable, you know? And that’s the point. That’s what I want to do: Of course I want to save the planet. Of course I want to set a good example. I really just want to show the youth that if you put your mind to whatever your passion is, then you can do it from your house. You can do it with just those few supplies that you can find at the thrift store.

When you started the brand, who did you imagine wearing your clothes—who did you think they’d be for?

Well, I never would have imagined that I would have been making custom jeans for Beyoncé when she was pregnant. I was just wanting to make clothes for myself and for other girls that were a little more daring in their choices—who also spoke through their outfits. I think the first celebrity moment I had was actually Rihanna.

That’s not bad for your first big name, right?

Not at all! It was a total conflict of interest with work at the time, and I was worried it would get a little messy, but it worked out in the end. It was the perfect boost for me to be confident enough to just quit my day job and do it full time. 

From there, I was on and off between day jobs for a while because everyone needs stability and a regular paycheck, right? And then one day I missed a Kendall Jenner job because I was working at my day job. I just thought, “Fuck this. This is not worth it.” And then I never went back. In a lot of ways, it still doesn’t feel real.

This interview appeared in issue 397, available here.

With five studio albums and seven EPs under his belt (or should that be pelt?), releasing his latest extended play, misery lake, Aug. 13, this year finds blackbear riding high and duly on course to reach a whole new audience and, accordingly, likely a whole new level of fame. Poised to tour North America with Maroon 5 this year as their main support, those upper echelons, now well within blackbear’s grasp, are a marker of just how far he’s come, personally and professionally.

Read more: blackbear releases “@ my worst” along with cinematic visual —watch

From releasing his debut album through his own record label, Beartrap, to signing a deal with Interscope that allowed for a retention of creative control with a whole new world of possibilities—an arrangement not too dissimilar to the one which turned small-time startup Fueled By Ramen into a household name—bear’s career trajectory reflects a unique mix of clout, commitment and, most importantly, raw talent.

And it’s in service of the latter where we find blackbear working so doggedly when it comes to misery lake.

As a body of work, it has all the hallmarks of a bear record—a fusion of sounds that nod to everything from late-’90s and early ’00s emo to trap to soul and R&B—but, most starkly, and more so than ever before, it has been created with nowhere to hide. Musto’s voice is on full display, brightening the dark corners of misery lake’s sonic and lyrical universe with its unique tone and timbre. Not so much a counterpoint to the EP’s sharper edges, not working against them, but instead working in collaboration to smooth them out—but never so much as to dull their potency.

Read more: Trash Boat takes us behind the scenes of ‘Don’t You Feel Amazing?’

On misery lake, blackbear’s past, present and future collide and align themselves as one. The dividing lines between his different stylistic influences—contemporary pop, electronic, hip-hop, trap, pop punk, soul and even hardcore—blur, bleeding into one another. Rather than chaotic, though, the result is considered and precisely executed—a carefully curated showcase of his talents as a singer, a songwriter and a musician. And, perhaps most impressively, a testament to a true love for music at large, without caveat, and the art form’s capacity to convey and channel emotion, with no regard for genre. 

For bear, it has been a long road, traveled often at pace and sometimes wearily. The pressures that come with fame—the incessant noise of social media, the lack of privacy, the weight of expectation—have compounded, at times, into personal crises. Now, having moved if not past these then at least through them, we are given our first glimpse at not so much of a new blackbear as a renewed blackbear—an artist with an optimistic outlook on life, still willing to acknowledge the darker elements but always, above all else, either looking for the light in the room or creating that luminescence for himself and those around him.

I saw something on Twitter recently where you posted a photo of your young self and mentioned you’ve been emo since the early days—what were you listening to back then, and what got you into the bands you liked? How did you find that music?

i had a babysitter when i was in the 4th grade named danny finerman who played in a local emo band in palm coast, fl and gave me my first new found glory album, the self-titled album. i started learning nfg and blink riffs on guitar like “dammit” and was inspired by the lyrics to songs like “dressed to kill” and “better off dead.” from there, i got into more emo: saves the day, the movielife, the used, the postal service and death cab for cutie, brand new, midtown, bayside, sum 41.

alkaline trio was my all time favorite tho. i tattooed their logo. then i got into ska pretty heavy like catch 22, less than jake, mustard plug and rx bandits. then i got into a darker hardcore screamo phase where i graduated to the devil wears prada, stick to your guns, hatebreed, as i lay dying, underoath, saosin. 

then there was a moment where all i listened to was acceptance and terminal. even went thru a punk phase where all i listened to was anti-flag, the casualties and leftover crack. i had a short mindless self indulgence phase as well. the list goes on forever. i’d like to think that all these bands influenced my writing. then when i was 19, i moved to atlanta to study under ne-yo where i really got into r&b and, boom, blackbear.

How does this early emo/punk/hardcore music influence the music you continue to make?

the vulnerability, the realness. the melodies and the lyrics shaped my original high school band that was once in AP magazine, polaroid. we got signed by an indie label out of buffalo, ny called leakmob records and started to tour in a jeep wrangler with a wooden trailer in 10th grade.

You work between R&B, electronic, pop and alternative music—how do these genres connect for you, personally?

i just love good music at this point. if u can sit down and sing an edm or r&b song on acoustic or piano, u know it’s good.

Do you think there’s really any distinction left between those different kinds of music? It feels like their subcultures, their tribes, whatever you want to call it, are all blurring into one these days. 

u said it the best. i feel like i could go on tour with maroon 5 or all time low and still have the same crowd show up for me, which is awesome. that’s love.

People have sometimes pegged you as another nihilistic, downbeat artist, but it feels like you’re working against that type these days. Is it because you want to prove them wrong, or is it just because things have changed for you and you feel differently? 

look, i’m happy now, but i struggle with crippling anxiety and depression. over the years, i’ve battled 10+ surgeries for chronic pancreatitis and a heavy cocaine addiction. now that i’m five years no alcohol and almost three no hard drugs, i’m just focused on making music that makes me feel happier and sometimes that involves self-pity, but i was taught to be as vulnerable as possible and stay true to who i am. and ever since i had my son and got engaged, i have a reason to wake up every day, so my music reflects that, but also reflects the trials i’ve faced.

It seems like, professionally, it’s been a long road—or, at least, you’ve covered a lot of ground in a short space of time to get from where you were to where you are now. Everything changed for you, really, since 2016, and it’s clear from your music just how much. What professional influences specifically during these last five years have played a role in that?

from learning songwriting from people like ne-yo and mike posner, i’ve learned to write from the heart and always add ur own personal flair to everything u do. i’ve consistently not given a fuck about what people think of me because there’s no point to stress about what u can’t control. no point in stressing about what u can control, either. no point in stressing. i just keep showing up for myself, my career, my fans and my family, and things seem to work themselves out.

What personal influences have changed in the last five years?

i quit drinking five years ago, and that really taught me to be myself and my body and help others when i can. when i’m not sick and in pain in bed from pancreatitis, i’m making songs or in the gym or playing with my son, midnight. five years ago, it was much different, and i didn’t have a lot of respect for myself and would act out a lot. i was a millionaire by the time i was 21 because i signed to universal as a writer and wrote “boyfriend” for justin bieber. i blew all that money within a year and had to build blackbear with the intention of it paying my bills one day too. luckily, it worked out after i made “idfc” in my bedroom with a shure sm7 mic, a macbook and a midi controller. no writers or producers.

misery lake paints a fairly bleak picture with its name and its tracklist. But would it also be fair to say that isn’t the whole picture? 

it really is just about the place i was in 2020. sometimes i was happy and sassy and sometimes i was proud, and sometimes i just couldn’t get out of bed for days. “alone in a room full of people” is the first song for a reason!

On your last album, everything means nothing, you mixed darker subject matter and contrasted with beats and melodies that feel inherently uplifting. Can we expect that same counterbalance on misery lake?

some but not much. misery lake is everything means nothing’s evil stepchild altho there is a happy beat to “bad day,” and the lyrics are definitely not happy.

misery lake feels almost like club jams, but then also music geared toward evenings on a Balearic island beach and then to tracks that remind me of Juice WRLD to others that sound almost like they could have come from a Dashboard album. But through all of that, it never feels disconnected. What are the parallels you draw from misery lake, and are connections or references to other bands or sounds ever intentional for you?

i take this as a major fucking compliment, so thank u. i would say i was inspired by all the bands i’ve mentioned but also inspired by my wicked mental state. i felt like i was in the movie girl, interrupted, and i was playing angelina jolie’s character haha.

misery lake is billed as an EP, but, in a way, it feels like a mixtape—in both senses of the word. Firstly, in the sense that you’ve kind of collected all of your favorite sounds together. Secondly, in that it really feels like you’re just showing the world what you can do here in terms of songwriting, production and vocal work. If this is a proper showcase of how you’re feeling in this moment right now, do you have an idea of what fans can expect in the future?

good question. i don’t really know. i just know i want to use more real instruments than i already am in the production and maybe dig deeper into my life story cause it’s been fucking crazy, and i’m lucky to be alive today. life is war.

You can read the full interview in issue 397, available here.

Their work is consistently thoughtful, regularly controversial and, perhaps above all else, always imbued with a sense of fun. Of course, that’s not to say that what they do isn’t important to them—it is, of course: James became a first-time father last year, and Pleasures is his full-time occupation. No, what that means in practice is that the brand—in terms of the clothes it makes and the way it sells them—benefits from a particularly rare gift within the fashion industry: the gift of self-awareness. 

Read more: METALHEADS hair dye celebrates alternative culture with all-star cast

With a new collaboration alongside the iconic British new-wave band New Order released in July, we caught up with James to discuss his East Coast roots, Pleasures’ punk values and the dream of creating a streetwear brand that’s about more than sex and drugs. But which, crucially, never forgets its roots.

How did you first come to streetwear personally?

It’s basically what I grew up with—how I learned about different types of Nikes and stuff: through hardcore music and the East Coast. 

That’s how I came to a lot of it as well, you know? Being a fan of bands like Glassjaw. Daryl Palumbo obviously knows his sneakers.

There’s a Glassjaw Nike [collab] floating around out there in the world. They only made like 30 pairs or something, but it’s out there. For me, the intersection of music and clothing has just always been there, so in my brand, it always made sense that we continue that language.

Was it always in your mind, even when you first started the brand, that there’d be a definitive musical connection there? 

Yeah. For me, my uniform is always band merch. And then I started to see brands collaborating with bands and artists and musicians, but it wasn’t really any of the stuff that I was listening to. I felt like there was a gap, like, “What about me and my friends and our scene and our audience?”

We actually did a project with Glassjaw; we did their album listening party in Los Angeles on Thanksgiving night 2018. We made a collaborative T-shirt, gave everybody free weed and alcohol and we sat around listening to the album and talking about it. It was amazing.

That sounds incredible.

It was just like a vibe, you know? They do out-of-the-box stuff, and that’s why we identify with them and with other bands. Because that’s the way that we are, too.

And you knew there was a built-in audience for you because, at the very least, it was what you and your friends wanted, right?

Yeah, pretty much. Streetwear was very much focused on guns, violence, sex, nudity, drugs. Stuff like that. But I was like, “Hey, we’re into different types of things. Sure, we like sex and drugs. But, you know, we don’t need to wear it.” 

You can do that on your own time, right?

Exactly. It was very much about touching on different subcultures and stuff that I was exposed to at a very young age. Same thing with my business partner: I grew up in New York, [and] he grew up in L.A. He was very much in the rave scene and the nü-metal scene and all that, and I was more on the hardcore and punk-rock side. We’re in our 30s now, and when you put on a certain song, it really takes you back to a certain time and a certain place, and you’re like, “Damn,” and it really starts you thinking. For both of us, that’s what we’re about. 

Was there a moment you can think of when the whole thing came together for you as a definitive idea? 

I would say the definitive moment, or the turning point of the brand, was when we had an opportunity to do this hybrid concert and runway show in 2017. Some of our friends were involved, and they invited us to be a part of it. It was with Wiz Khalifa, Juicy J, Ty Dolla $ign—and, obviously, let’s be real: Everybody listens to hip-hop. I know I do; I always have. Me and Vlad are huge fans of Three 6 Mafia. But getting the opportunity to work with those guys, and with Wiz especially, who was a supporter of ours from the start and actually suggested us for this project, was incredible. It was in L.A., at the Staples Center, and it was a really big deal. We were still a really small brand. 

So it was an opportunity to really prove yourselves. 

Exactly. We thought, “Hey, we can make some cool products here and put on this high-level concert-runway show with our friends at 424, another brand, and really show people what we’re about.” That became a turning point for us where people started thinking, “Oh, this is a real brand. Not just an Instagram brand; they’re doing real things.”

When you’re doing something like that, if you’re not doing it for the right reasons and you’re not genuine, it shows through quite easily. When you are, people will take notice. 

That’s why we try to make our stuff affordable, too. Because that’s just the way we grew up. We grew up shopping at Goodwill and at Salvation Army and stuff like that—places where we’d be lucky to get a branded T-shirt or something. Now we always have that in our minds, and it’s like, “OK, we can make cool stuff, and design doesn’t have to be expensive.” I think that’s what’s cool. 

If you grew up listening to punk and hardcore and as a part of those scenes, then it’s your instinct to make things more accessible. More democratic.

Exactly. And we can use our platform as a voice to bring awareness to things that are happening in the world, things that we don’t agree with, and try to help people understand to do the right thing in their daily lives. That’s what I think has been cool, too: to really speak out about certain issues that are important to us, especially with everything that’s been going on in the U.S.

In that sense, outside of your musical influences, what is it that you think most permeates what you do?

I really think the inspiration is from growing up in the age of the birth of technology—the birth of the internet. It’s about showing people why we are the way we are—why we reference certain things and why we dress the way we dress. 

The transition of not having the internet, then having the internet and trying to navigate this new world, I think having that knowledge and experience really helps us get our point across. There’s a whole generation of people who maybe might have missed out on the internet because they might have been too old at the time, but I was at the height of it, and I really took advantage early on of submerging myself and thinking, “This is where the world is now.”

Are there other brands that share your values and creative ideas that you’re a fan of or that you’d like to work with?

It’s funny: I don’t really pay attention to what other people are doing as much because I think that messes with my creativity. But, obviously, brands that I wear: Ralph Lauren has been consistent in my life for a very long time—someone that I look up to and admire and is still making really cool products now. I really like some of these independent footwear brands that are coming up, too, like Stepney Workers Club. I’m actually wearing a pair right now. It’s just something a little different. An iteration of a timeless classic with just a little bit more to it.

They’re from the U.K., right?

I’ve had this attraction to British culture my whole life. I don’t know what it is, you know, with the music. I guess the root of it is Morrissey, but we’re not going to go there. Regardless, I’ve just always had this tie to British culture, and now the brand is getting very popular in the U.K.

You had a New Order collection come out, a follow-up to your Joy Division release. I guess that comes from the same place of love?

Also just our love for music that’s always changing and progressing and there throughout our lives. When we worked with Peter Saville for our Joy Division project, we had a good workflow, and we said, “Hey, can we do New Order, too?” We’re actually doing Factory Records, as well. Everybody knows their iconic imagery but doesn’t really know the history of it. So we’re gonna tell a little bit more of the Factory story. Obviously, 24 Hour Party People is a great crash course for anyone who wants to learn, right?

Even in the U.K., some of this stuff is still fairly niche because it’s still technically “alternative culture,” right?

Absolutely. And I feel like when you listen to New Order’s music, you feel like, “Wow, this song sounds pretty fresh,” and you look and it was made in 1983. And then you listen to something else, and you’re like, “Wow, this was made two years ago.” There haven’t really been too many bands that have evolved with the world and time and culture like New Order has. 

They can play older songs alongside their newer stuff and none of it sounds stale or old-fashioned.

It seems fresh and fun and different. And I think it really is an identifier of our brand—of something that we aspire to be. New Order is just such a good example of that. 

Working with Peter has been amazing, too. He’s somebody that we look up to. He’s an interesting dude that’s done so much. 

Even if people don’t know his name then, they’ll know something that he’s done, right?

Yeah, I know! We really did the education of the Unknown Pleasures cover with our Joy Division stuff, and people really got to learn that it’s not just a Tumblr image. It stands for something more.

I know what it is about a band like New Order that appeals to you, but outside of that, what is it that attracts you to a band or a brand as a good partner to work with?

A good partner in any project is just someone that brings something completely different to the table other than what we can offer. When we’re working in music, it’s gotta be someone that we vibe with, that we listen to, that we co-sign—that we love, really. We’re not gonna work with an artist or a band if we’re not into it. It’s gotta speak to us, and we’ve gotta be as excited about their work just as much as they’re into ours. 

If you haven’t got that authenticity at the root of what you’re doing, then you haven’t really got what makes you, you, right?

Exactly. People look at the brand as having that unique voice, and between me and Vlad and our employees, I think we have a pretty clear path. People know what we’re about and what we’re into, and they know that through our work.

This interview appeared in issue 397, available here.

Safe to say, whatever else it is—theatrical, camp, opulent, a reliable source of annual funding for the museum’s Costume Institute—the event isn’t what you’d call “inclusive.” Exclusivity, in fact, is one of the Gala’s main selling points—you don’t pay a reported $30,000 per ticket for a night out that just anyone can attend, after all.

Read more: MUNA and Phoebe Bridgers drop new queer anthem “Silk Chiffon”—watch

It’s with this in mind that the VFILES Foundation will host its first-ever NOT THE MET GALA event Sept. 12 in Williamsburg, New York, a day before the Gala itself, with a drastically different mission to its namesake. 

An incubator for up-and-coming talent since 2012, VFILES has consistently worked as an amplifier for voices too often drowned out by those who are louder but have less to say, and for talents whose creative accomplishments are too easily eclipsed by well-funded, mainstream PR machines. With grants, mentoring, access and education, VFILES aims to right these wrongs and put talent—rather than spectacle—front and center through community-driven programs and access to their high-profile platform. 

This is the basis of the Foundation’s overall mission and very much the cornerstone of NOT THE MET GALA—which makes sense, really, as these things are very much not the Met Gala. 

Held at 3 Dollar Bill—a considerably more down-to-earth venue, perfect for an event positioned not for the sake of posturing but rather with creative discovery and mutual appreciation in mind—tickets to the VFILES alternative offering are on sale now, priced at a much more agreeable $50, and come packaged with the knowledge that your money is being spent in ways that might genuinely change the life of an unknown creative talent.

Read more: KennyHoopla is redefining what it means to be a rockstar for a new era

In the spirit of similar events—like The Guardian’s annual Not The Booker Prize award for fiction, for example—NOT THE MET GALA is a rallying cry against the worst characteristics of the industry in which it sits: not, by any means, a cure—but a salve and a welcome light left on for those marginalized creative talents, for BIPOC, LGBTQIA+ creators and for women, who know, all too well, that they’ll be shut out in the dark when it comes to events that are heavily gatekept by those at the top. 

The mission, as with the VFILES vision in everything the foundation does, is to put power in the hands of those who can use it to make real, lasting impact; creatives who have the talent not only to inspire but to create waves that might—with the platform and the tools—create a sea change that goes as far as the mainstream. 

The tide is turning—previous VFILES talents have gone on to challenge for the LVMH Prize, win the prestigious Woolmark Prize and sign major deals across creative fields—and that’s a current we want to be swimming with. Not against.

Tickets for NOT THE MET GALA are available for purchase here.

Having, in just seven years, successfully carved out a name for themselves over the course of seven studio albums and four EPs, as well as a live album and some impressive appearances with notably illustrious collaborators such as Rina Sawayama and Tegan And Sara, Shamir’s latest efforts find the East Coast artist with head turned firmly toward another subject entirely: streetwear. 

Read more: WILLOW talks about her influences, working with Avril Lavigne and more

Not one to simply dive into something that they don’t believe in—and believe in wholesale—Shamir’s approach to clothing, as with their music, is entwined with something deeper and considerably more personal. And, in this case, that root is their bipolar disorder diagnosis, the process of working through that and a chance to help other people who might be going through the same thing.

Read more: Tatiana Hazel shares how creating music and fashion go hand in hand

Streetwear might seem like an unlikely vessel for discussing serious mental health issues—a capsule collection designed, in part, using AI technology even more so. But, through their own experiences, Shamir draws parallels and makes connections that bring all these disparate pieces together. Bipolar Butterfly, a project in collaboration with urbancoolab—a tech/culture brand whose tagline reads, “Machine Design. Human Story.”—is the result of joining those dots.       

 

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Emblazoned with a striking butterfly pattern—a symbol that has come to represent the bipolar community through its beauty, strength and tenderness—the collection, fittingly benefiting the good work of associated charities and organizations, is the product of an all-too-human creative, cathartic and highly personal process. Despite its origins, as with everything Shamir does, there’s nothing artificial to be found.

What’s your relationship to streetwear?

That’s difficult because I wouldn’t really say that I have a relationship to streetwear. Or, at least, I didn’t before. What I will say is that, from my perspective, looking at streetwear, there isn’t a lot of color or pattern—definitely not pattern, anyway—and you see a lot of the same silhouettes, over and over again. So, that just didn’t strike a chord with me, and I wanted to do something different. 

So, if you weren’t into streetwear—and we’ve already established that’s a good thing—how did you end up working on Bipolar Butterfly?

Well, urbancoolab—Connor [Elsaesser], specifically, who’s been like my right-hand man through all this—hit me up directly. They came to me. They’re working on some amazing things, and while they’re pushing to make AI technology more accessible to everyone, they’ve been doing these capsule collections with an amazing list of people. Anyway, Connor came to me, and, you know, I was just a little wary from the start: Like I said, this wasn’t really my world, and while I’m starting to accept that people are getting to know me a little more in connection with fashion, it wasn’t something I knew so much about. 

I mean, there are definitely worse things you can be known for, right?

Oh, definitely! But what really sold me in the end was just Connor’s own joy and excitement about the project—and also discovering that we had a whole bunch of mutual friends. Suddenly I thought, “OK, maybe this could be something.” After that, we just started going through ideas—through colors and everything. And I was already working with the pink-and-purple palette from my last record, so I definitely knew I wanted to do something like that. 

So, you know, while they came to me in the first place, it’s all very personal. I just wanted it to be as me as possible. And, in that way, it was great to have the advocacy part to it, too—to be able to help people and to do something. To make sure that it’s not yet another vanity project. That’s the last thing I want to do or feel like I need. If I don’t approach things right and just do my own thing, then I don’t care. I’m a particular person. I’ll only approach something, especially something that’s not necessarily within my immediate wheelhouse, if I feel like it’s calling. 

If it speaks to you.

Exactly. Or if it’s going to do something—create some kind of change. You know, help someone else besides me. And so, when I saw an opportunity to connect the project to my mental health journey, in a natural way and also with the charitable side of it, then I started to get a lot more excited about it and feel connected to it in a much more substantial kind of way. 

It’s obviously deeply personal to you, but a lot of people won’t be aware of the meaning behind the butterfly iconography. Being able to put it out there like this—front and center—and to, hopefully, tear down some of the stigma relating to bipolar disorder feels important.

Yeah, for sure! I mean, I think everyone knows—or at least knows someone who could be—bipolar. Whether they’re aware of it or not. So, you know, we’re all affected. And not just people who have bipolar are affected by bipolar—friends and family are as well, you know what I mean? 

Speaking from my experience, I know that the guilt from stigma has its own stressors. It’s just immensely triggering. I know people struggle a lot with that, and, for me, the lifting of that—of that shame, that guilt—and working through it, getting rid of it from within itself, made my mental health journey a lot smoother. Not only tolerable, either, but kind of joyful, you know? You can’t practice self-care when you feel guilt; you can’t practice self-care when you feel like a nuisance; you can’t practice self-care when you feel broken. 

And there’s more to life than feeling that way, right? More to everything. More to what you do. 

I remember a friend and I were recording my last—well, my next, soon to be released—record in the middle of nowhere, in the Poconos back in February. We got tested, drove up and locked ourselves away. Between takes, we’re just talking or whatever, and my friend is like, “Hey, you almost make this like fun.” And I thought, you know, I do have fun. It’s not all pain. It’s not all tragedy. You know, life is already hard enough. Why do I have to live this tragedy just because of what the media has taught us? 

That is a weird expectation that’s put on people these days. Especially on social media and, as you say, through the media at large. People expect every gruesome detail of your life, like they’re owed it somehow, and they don’t want to hear about the other stuff, about the joyful stuff.  

Yeah, I think that’s true. With me, it’s not that it isn’t born out of trauma, obviously. I had to go through things in order to even get this diagnosis. But, in my experience, even before this—and after this, I’m sure, probably for the rest of my life—when people think of me, they’ll think, “trauma.”

I think, at least for me, as far as trauma goes, there’s always been some kind of lesson or realization at the end of it that made me a better person, that made me a stronger person, and that, ultimately, made me work through even the worst of things that have happened to me in a more positive way. 

Like with Bipolar Butterfly.

Exactly. This collection is just a reminder that I’m an optimist. I think a lot of people presume, because I so easily talk about the darker things in life, that maybe I’m a pessimist. But I always call myself a pessimistic optimist. And I think this is a perfect example: It’s not wallowing in the trauma at all. It’s showing the beauty within the trauma, you know? 

The fact that my mother immediately started calling me Butterfly, without any kind of prompt, I don’t know how she started—I still don’t know. But I was freaking out, like, “I know I’m the butterfly, but what does that mean?” I find that immensely poetic and beautiful. Yes, that comes from a traumatic experience, but it doesn’t make me feel bad. It makes me feel a kind of comfort. Like I’ve picked up a new understanding of myself.

A lot of the time, people are guilty of over mythologizing the idea of traumatized artistry—of the traumatized artist—and try to extract that out of people for reasons that it shouldn’t be.

Right?

You can tell when someone actually wants to tell their story. And you can tell when they’ve been pushed to tell that story when they just weren’t willing or ready or it just doesn’t feel like it fits. 

I’ve been very loud about this. I think it’s so harmful. It’s so harmful. And I feel like I want to be a shining example of something else. Like, yes, I can be an artist of trauma and pain and all of these things. But also, I hope, be a beacon of light—someone who has worked through it, hopefully, and who can show that it is possible to work through it. To live a healthy life and still be just as edgy or cool as I want to be or whatever, but on my own terms. 

It can feel like people are goading that out of you; baying for blood, almost. And then they act surprised when they get what they were asking for.

For sure. I mean, around the time of a very transitional period for me—coming out with my debut record, going back to doing guitar-based music and indie rock—I remember how hard, despite everyone knowing my story, what I went through, people were on me. Just because I was doing something that was outside of the realm of what they expected from me. 

Even when presented with the information, “I am literally fresh out of the hospital with a bipolar diagnosis,” that just wasn’t enough. And it’s just like, God, if I wasn’t getting literal, professional help at this time, what would have happened? Oh, my God, people are ruthless. Especially when you’re a public figure. They think that you’re not a human, basically. 

People either want everything from you, or they want to project: They want you to bare your soul or to be a completely blank slate—an empty vessel for them to fill. 

Exactly. And I think that’s why it’s nice for me to have other avenues where I’m able to tell more sides and details of my story that I can’t necessarily in music.       

Bipolar Butterfly wasn’t something I expected to do, but it turned out to be a really great avenue for this kind of advocacy that I had already started to take seriously and to be a part of—and also advocacy for myself, you know? Something I was in complete control of. 

What you do get to see is other people wearing it, and you get the joy out of that without having to go through it every day all over again. 

That’s the best feeling. I love seeing other people wearing the collection—how they put the looks together, as something separate to me. How they’ve chosen to wear it, as something of their own, you know? 

That’s a feeling that I didn’t ever expect to have. It’s different from merch: Maybe the people buying this, they do like my music, and maybe they do like me, but you can tell that they’re wearing it because they look good in it. They feel good in it.

You can read the full interview in issue 395, available here.

And this holds particularly true when it comes to music and fashion, each feeding off the other in a feedback loop that gets louder and louder, more and more confident with each and every cycle.

Read more: Reese LAFLARE combines skate and grunge culture in Diva collections

This isn’t necessarily about Hot Topic—a subcultural mainstay that has been the refuge of oddball teens (and adults) for decades and which has now found itself a more front-facing role in style of late thanks to Gen Z’s fascination with ’00s emo aesthetics. 

Instead, this is more about a wider sea change that’s been taking place over what now amounts to years and which was neatly encapsulated in Prada’s Spring/Summer 2022 presentation at Milan Fashion Week last weekend: the slow and steady merging of subculture into culture at large. 

It’s not something that can be pinned to any one designer or event—although I’m sure most would agree that, from a fashion point of view, Rick Owens and his penchant for the pentagram has a whole lot to do with it. 

More realistically, it has to do with the dripping infusion of alternative music and art into the everyday lives of people who might otherwise have shied away from that. Ten years ago, it was unthinkable that you’d hear bands like Architects or Bring Me The Horizon on a radio station that wasn’t a dedicated rock channel—or at least on a channel’s token, post-9 p.m. alt show. 

Read more: Calvin Klein’s Heron Preston brings new sincerity with alternative icons

Now they’re part of the A-list rotation, playing alongside the Dua Lipas and Ariana Grandes of this world. And that has a knock-on effect elsewhere, too. 

Now, we hear goth-tinged music in places we never heard it before and see subtle nods to that mainstreaming arise elsewhere. Most notably in fashion. 

In terms of the Prada collection, the skort—a combination, for those not in the know, of a skirt and shorts—feels not only very 2000s-era Jonathan Davis of Korn but also very much an homage to the cybergoth aesthetic. The bulky silver jewelry and black-on-black clothing also very much fit the bill. 

But the Prada collection is just the latest in a long line of alternative infiltrators: Jean chains, once very much a marker of outsider style, have been popping up in fashion for some time now—from the mass market to more high-end versions like the one by Swedish brand Our Legacy. 

Studs, too. They’ve lived on the belts and jackets of dedicated goths and emo teens for time immaterial, but now you’ll find them adorning wallets by such major high fashion names as COMME des GARÇONS. 

While household names like Alexander McQueen have long embraced gothica, covering their clothes in skull motifs and other macabre iconography, it’s the subtle details that are more interesting. Without black-metal aesthetics, we’d have no VETEMENTS. Without Demonia or creepers, we’d have nothing like the exaggerated sole found on Balenciaga’s Triple S sneaker or Prada’s Monolith silhouette. 

Read more: Get Better Records is a label as well as a vibrant community for artists

These may be a somewhat smoother version of the looks that inspired them—a softening of their edges. Their influence is plain to see. 

That it comes alongside not only the mainstreaming of genuine, full-throttle alternative music by daytime radio but also the infusion of that music into the DNA of pop makes perfect sense. Acts like Rina Sawayama borrow from pop punk and nü metal, and these ideas become part of the fabric of everyday life. 

The reveal of Matthew M. Williams’ debut collection for Givenchy featured details, which—though familiar to a lesser degree for fans of the designer’s 1017 ALYX 9SM label—lean heavily on a bold, pseudo-gothic style language. From enormous silver neck chains to monotone leather vests, all the way up to horned caps. Which is probably a step too far even for most goths. 

Read more: Fashion loves metal, and these crossovers are all the proof you need

It’s a slow-burn effect, which feels less like a change and more like a part of something bigger: the erosion of traditional cultural divides in favor of a less compartmentalized appreciation of creativity. 

One isn’t replacing the other, but the dialogue is stronger than ever. And it’s a conversation that only gets more interesting the longer it goes on. 

Reese LAFLARE is one of those exceptions. 

Read more: Calvin Klein’s Heron Preston brings new sincerity with alternative icons

Born in Alabama and based in Atlanta, Georgia, LAFLARE is multidimensional at heart; he’s a rapper, a skater and a clothing designer—rather than a rapper who skates and makes his own clothes, or a skater who raps on the side, or a designer who occasionally picks up a deck—makes perfect sense. 

The idea of being only one thing simply isn’t part of LAFLARE’s makeup. It’s not in his genes to settle for less than what he feels capable of. That would be something akin to creative betrayal. 

LAFLARE is a living collage—made up of influences which, alone, don’t necessarily seem like they fit together but, when assembled just right, come together in one coherent vision. His 2019 album, Final Fantasy, collected elements of pop culture from his childhood up to the present day, dipping in and out but always managing to keep a coherent narrative form. Everything held together by the fact that he just really fucking cares. 

It’s this same process, a passion-first approach, which also drives Diva, LAFLARE’s clothing brand, fully hitting its stride and about to celebrate a first full year of life, already worn by the likes of fashion-forward artists such as Young Thug and certified style arbiters such as Luka Sabbat. 

As a label, Diva has been building momentum in the same way that LAFLARE has been snowballing clout and attention for most of his life—organically, through personal connections and shared endeavors. 

As a skater in Atlanta, he found himself moving in circles that other artists, even major-label artists, could scarcely dare hope for; his style and his sense of purpose drew names such as Pusha T, Smokepurpp, Gunna and Ty Dolla $ign into his orbit. Not with the weight of a major label but with his own sense of gravity. Co-signs earned, not assigned. 

As a designer, LAFLARE has names as diverse as Louis Vuitton—via longtime Kanye West collaborator and the Paris-based fashion house’s current men’s wear artistic director, Virgil Abloh—and Nike, his one-time skate sponsor, circling, visible to the naked eye, like not-so-distant satellites. 

Building this brand is, in many ways, the culmination of a lifetime ambition for LAFLARE. Diva, he has always been clear, isn’t some fly-by-night attempt to get a piece of the action, which has been so good to so many others (and so fickle to so many more); it isn’t, he has been at pains to hammer home, “merch.” 

“The distinction,” LAFLARE explains, “is the clear line of just merch is for the band.” While Diva, on the other hand, is an entire lifestyle brand. 

“It’s bigger than Reese LAFLARE. But there could be no Diva without Reese. It’s like how Savage x Fenty is bigger than just Rihanna, but we all know it’s her.”

It’s an interesting approach, both humble and self-assured, and one that’s emblematic of LAFLARE’s attitude to every facet of his work: a sense of conviction that his vision and his talent are the driving force behind this project, as with all of his others, and not his ego. 

For LAFLARE, that’s always been the only way he knows.

“The whole idea of Diva came to me in the beginning of fall 2019,” he begins. “I grew up skateboarding and was always into fashion and all that shit.” And, while most would leave it there—another unrealized dream to throw on the pile, gathering dust—LAFLARE followed through, taking those passions, mixing them with others, beginning to mold something he could recognize as his own. “I wanted to make a company with a name that just stood out,” he explains. “Girl skateboarders and my mom inspired me to call the brand Diva.”

This whirling maelstrom of preoccupations might leave less confident or less driven artists with their output diluted, but LAFLARE is casual about the idea of spreading himself too thin. What you see is exactly what you get. “I pretty much put it all out there, honestly,” he says when asked about any other extracurricular pursuits he might be hiding. “There are other things I’m into, but I think my talents stand out. 

“Maybe I could direct films or something,” he adds after a moment’s thought and an off-hand display of the kind of self-belief that has helped carry him and the Diva brand this far. “I got the vision.”

The brand, which sits neatly at the intersection of capital-F Fashion, high-end streetwear and authentic, grassroots skate apparel—with luxury varsity jackets positioned next to T-shirts and beanies at Diva’s online storefront—isn’t divorced from LAFLARE’s music, though. His musical influences, as diverse as his own talents, wind between Korn, Limp Bizkit, the whole Atlanta scene and stalwart names of grunge’s imperial phase. (Interestingly, though LAFLARE cites Nirvana by name, it’s actually Hole that manifest most clearly, his logo cribbing from the typography on Live Through This.)

He also lists his own music as inspiration—which is neither as surprising nor as self-absorbed as it sounds; Diva was never meant to be homage or nostalgia—neither a tribute to his heroes from the past nor a nod to his peers. It’s a brand that LAFLARE has worked to grow from the ground up, on his own creative steam. That he should take some of that energy from other outlets makes perfect sense. Especially when there’s so much to go around. 

It’s no surprise then that LAFLARE still has ambition.

In terms of Diva’s future, it’s just the modest goal of “making the brand a household name,” which is taking up the bulk of his time and focus. Characteristically, too, LAFLARE—who’s more of a laser-focused beam, shooting off in all directions, than a blunderbuss just hoping to get lucky—has a plan for this: “I got some collabs in the works that are dropping this year. Y’all are gonna be like, ‘Fucckkkkkkk!’”

When pressed on what those might be, LAFLARE is unusually coy but happy to offer his vision board of esoteric brand collaborations: “I want to do some stuff with Hysteric Glamour, X-girl, Hasbro—Transformers specifically. Tech Deck.” More importantly, though, he says, “I just wanna make cool shit.”

As for who he’d like to see wearing Diva in the not-too-distant future, his answers are typically eclectic and self-assured reflections of his own broad church of influences: “Madonna, maybe. Gwen Stefani would be sick. blink-182. Adele would be fire.”

And, honestly, why not? Those names are just as likely to see in LAFLARE, and in Diva, what so many others have. An authenticity, an energy and a genuine love for artistic creativity in every avenue. That’s a rare combination. One that people are always happy to get in on. 

But, still, LAFLARE—ever magnanimous in his ambitions—has no interest in limiting himself or the people who might soon be wearing his clothes. Diva, he says, is for “stylish people” of all kinds: “Skaters, artists, entertainers. I mean, everybody is a Diva in their own right.

“Diva,” he offers as a final thought, “is for the people.”

This, naturally, has been divisive: You can’t please everyone, and, a lot of the time—especially in the alternative music sphere—you can’t please anyone at all. 

Read more: 5 Dr. Martens collabs that have embraced every alternative subculture

Shaking the preconceptions of exactly what heavy music meant in the 2010s, and what it means now in the early 2020s, was never going to be an easy ride. Particularly, it’s fair to say—though unfair in pretty much every other way—for a young woman.

Under more scrutiny than many of her contemporaries, principally for challenging the codes of what defines “alt” music and culture—even, or perhaps especially, as she cribs from and reinvents those codes—Poppy’s stylistic choices, too, are often held up as evidence that she’s less than a true believer. 

Read more: Fashion loves metal, and these crossovers are all the proof you need

After all, someone who collaborates with high fashion designers such as Viktor&Rolf, or who wears Delvaux bags and appears on the pages of Vogue, could never live up to the outsider credentials that making alternative music for some reason requires. Right? Well, no. 

Outsiderism is what you make it, essentially, and regardless of where she started back in 2011, Poppy is an outsider. And she’s an outsider specifically because she’s been made into one by the alt purists who push against her credibility: If you don’t let someone into the club—particularly if the reason you’re keeping them out is because they don’t look like some cardboard cut-out idea you have in your mind—then, by definition, they are very much outside. 

It’s with this in mind that we find Poppy working, once again, in a space that bridges those tenuous gaps between the mainstream and alternative worlds: footwear. It’s perhaps an unlikely shared passion, but—whether you’re into New Rocks and Dr. Martens, Nikes and Jordans, or you’re passionate about the surprisingly enduring cult status of the Balenciaga Triple S sneaker—what you wear on your feet has long been a marker of how you see yourself in a broader cultural sense. 

And, in yesterday announcing a collaboration with KOI Footwear, it’s clear that Poppy knows this. Perhaps better than most.

To that same end, Poppy’s decision to work with a lesser-known brand will likely confound and delight her critics and her fans alike: KOI is a less than household name, based in the U.K. Poppy is slowly but surely (although not too slowly) earning that status for herself and is firmly, definitely rooted in California. 

But here’s the thing: It’s not that Poppy took the first deal that came her way, regardless of the brand’s standing. Quite the opposite, in fact. Realistically, Poppy could have worked with any brand she wanted to at this point; she’s a rising star, and the footwear market, once dominated by sports stars and hip-hop artists, is opening up to partners in considerably smaller niches.

Instead, what’s clear is that KOI is a brand that holds genuinely alternative ethics and values: It’s vegan, and it’s accessibly priced. Essentially, it’s for everyone, and no one is hurt in the process. 

That, whatever you might think of the baby blues and kawaii neons of the collection, is punk as fuck.

An artist, streetwear pioneer, DJ and creative director whose clothes betray an impish sense of humor, Preston is a divisive choice for a label like Calvin Klein, representing as he does a very particular generation of creatives—those who came of age at the turn of the millennium and who, for better and for worse, were the first to really immerse themselves in the possibilities of the internet. 

Read more: 5 Dr. Martens collabs that have embraced every alternative subculture

In that sense, then, the fact that—in a 2016 article for GQ—writer Jake Woolf posited that “Heron Preston May Be the First ‘Instagram-First’ Fashion Designer” is no real surprise. Or, if there were a surprise, it would be that no one else of his generation had yet been called that. 

Still, what does stand out as strange is that Preston should find himself at Calvin Klein—a legacy brand, by all accounts, established in 1968, with a very clear sense of history and heritage, and a very well-defined way of doing things. 

With his first campaign, however—a short film featuring his friends, peers and loved ones—Preston has made it clear that his millennial attributes are what make him perfect for the job: connection, intimacy, honesty, collaboration—a way of being very much forged on the internet. A youth spent on tumblr. On LiveJournal. On Myspace. Those digital spaces that have given us so much and which are still paying dividends today.

Calvin Klein has always worn its heart on its sleeve as a brand, as much as its name has been worn around the waists of people the world over. In this video, up close and personal with a notably improvised feel—and with a fitting nod to CK ads from the ’90s—Preston’s collaborators do the same. 

Read more: Fashion loves metal, and these crossovers are all the proof you need

In doing so, they also bring their personalities to the table: names such as Lil Uzi Vert, Nas and Kaia Gerber feel less like the mega stars they undoubtedly are and more like the people they also, equally undoubtedly, are.

A veritable feast of talent, we’ve broken down the big names from the video and explained just why you ought to know who they are.

Lil Uzi Vert

Unless you live under a rock, which honestly might have been preferable this last year, you most likely know Symere Bysil Woods’ alter ego Lil Uzi Vert.

Frequently dressed like he just bought out a whole Hot Topic on his way to also buy out a high-end jewelry store, Uzi’s blend of emo and trap combined with his Uncut Gems-meets-Myspace aesthetic makes him something of an oddity—not just a genre-bending talent but someone truly immersed in the subcultures he borrows from. 

Nas

Occasionally overshadowed by his long-running—but nowadays entirely resolved—beef with JAY-Z, Nas is one of modern hip-hop’s true originators, a leading light of the New York rap scene, and was rightly tipped even in his earliest days as a potential successor to Rakim for the quality of his freestyles and the lyrical potency of his rhymes. 

Given the distinctly archival flavor of Preston’s first collection for Calvin Klein, Nas makes for a perfect choice to lead the campaign’s ensemble cast—carrying a sense of weight, credibility and legacy that has almost certainly influenced every other artist involved. 

Stevie Williams

A mainstay on the skating scene for over a quarter-century, Stevie Williams got his break in 1994—at the ripe old age of 12—recording a part for Element’s Fine Arts Vol. 1 skate video, appropriately under the moniker of Lil Stevie. By the time he was 18, Williams had modelled for Zoo York, joined Chocolate Skateboards and designed his own signature shoe for DC. 

Founder of the DGK label—that’s Dirty Ghetto Kids, in case you were wondering—Williams also happens to appear in no less than five Tony Hawk video games. Which, realistically, is about as legit as it gets. 

Renell Medrano

Since first picking up a camera at 14, Renell Medrano has been photographing the people of New York City, whether they’re friends, family, artists, creatives, collaborators or just, well, people. Having shot everyone from Tyler, the Creator to Bella Hadid by the age of 27, Bronx-based Medrano is best known for the authentic quality of her photographs—for capturing the kinds of fleeting moments that most people could easily miss.

It’s a great fit for the Preston campaign. The video, after all, is shot with the intention of feeling ad hoc, almost candid. Throwing Medrano into the mix is an interesting reversal of that. 

Jordan Alexander

A Canadian singer and actress from Toronto, set to star in the upcoming Gossip Girl reboot, Jordan Alexander probably ranks among the least well known of Preston’s illustrious collaborators—even as a rising star in her own right.

But, honestly, that’s kind of the point: Why would Calvin Klein’s new creative consultant want to spend all of his time looking back when he could be looking forward? Filed under “one to watch.”